


When Worlds Collide

by BerityBaker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Rugby Captain John, Teenlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock may be a brilliant dancer, but he's also a rugby play-writing prodigy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Worlds Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Ignore the cheesy title. I couldn't let myself get away with just "Balletlock Drabble."
> 
> I wrote this ages ago, then realized the other day while my mom and I discussed rugby that I hadn't posted it. So here you go!

“Sherlock, not now, please,” John pushed his boyfriend away without even looking at him, because he knew that if he did, there would be no focusing for the rest of the night.

“John,” Sherlock whined.

“Seriously, Sherlock, I have to get this done.”

“What are you even working on?” He peeked over John’s shoulder, then looked at him skeptically. “Rugby? Really? I’m throwing myself at you and you’re rejecting me in favor of  rugby ?”

“It’s not e asy, trust me. But the Cup is this weekend , and I need to think up some really terrific plays. We might actually have a chance  this  year, but that means that I can’t fuck it up.”

Sherlock took advantage of his tiny waist and slid between John and the desk, perching on his knee and hovering over the dry-erase diagram of a rugby pitch laid out in front of him. There were little Xs and circles all over the place,  with arrows connecting them,  but Sherlock analyzed their positions quickly.

“Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at  an X  near the center of the diagram.  Although he didn’t know much about the names of positions, it was hard  not  to understand the game play after sitting through so many of John’s matches—though, admittedly, the sight of John in his rugby kit had made the process of learning the rules  rather more slow than it might have been. Still, he knew the players by name, and so their names became associated with their nameless positions in his mind.

“Andrews, if he doesn’t go and crash his motorbike again this week.”

“Why do you have him going in this direction? It would make more sense for him to fake that and go for the other side.” Sherlock i ndicated what he meant with the discarded pen  and John’s eyes lit up.

“Brilliant,” he muttered.

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed.

John grinned at him. “Can I keep you?”

“Perhaps if you put the playbook away and come to bed.”

“Alright, but I have to get home by one. Mum’s  not been happy with me staying over every night.”

“Well, perhaps tomorrow I could stay with you?”

“Nice try. Now come on, get that shirt off, you.”

+++

The next morning, having accidentally fallen asleep,  John  cursed Sherlock and his ridiculously comfortable bed when he woke to some sort of alarm blaring in his ear and about thirty text messages from his mother

“ Sorry. Fell asleep at Sherlock’s ,” he managed to type between stuffing his books into his bag and pulling on the jumper he’d left there the week before. “Sherlock?” he  called .

“In here,” was the reply from the walk-in closet.

“We’re going to be late. Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded whe n he saw Sherlock sitting  on the little stool, fully dressed and  calmly  tying his shoe.

Sherlock shrugged. “I set an alarm for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got that.  You couldn’t have set it for earlier?”

“I don’t imagine it takes you very long to get dressed in the morning. You don’t seem extremely concerned about your appearance.”

“Gee, thanks .”

“You know what I mean. I thought I would just let you sleep for a bit.”

Something  in his gaze  faltered and  made John pause. Slowly, his face broke into a smirk. “You thought you’d let me sleep.”

“Yes, of course, isn’t that what I just said?” Sherlock sounded impatient, but the lovely shade of red creeping up his neck told another story.

“Perhaps you…couldn’t  bear  to wake me?” John teased. He stepped toward Sherlock.

“Shut up.”

“I was just too sexy in my sleep, was I?”

“On the contrary, John, you’re quite…adorable. When you’re asleep.”

By now, Sherlock was standing, and John had only to take one step before they were nose to nose. “I’ll take that. What about when I’m awake?”

“You mean like right now?” Sherlock responded, his voice reaching a dangerous level of sultriness for so early in the morning , and  John nodded. Sherlock leaned in close, lips brushing John’s ear in the threat of a whisper.

Then he  pulled away suddenly , smirking,  and said, “Your hair looks a mess and you’ve  yet to brush your teeth,” before walking past him and sitting down at the desk, busying himself with one of the beakers next to the notebook he used for experiments.

John sighed and went to finish getting ready for class , smiling despite himself.

+++

A s soon as John’s rugby mates had left the changing rooms, he would  always  sneak over to the dance studio to catch the end of Sherlock’s re hearsal, and the rest of that week was no different.  In doing so, he made it much too easy for Sherlock to manipulate him into coming over  every night  to do his homework or, even better, lounge on Sherlock’s bed with the occasional  snog until they fell asleep. Fresh from the sight of Sherlock stretching and still catching his own eyes roving over the tights that he knew Sherlock would soon make a show of taking off, Sherlock would peck him on the cheek and say, “Coming over?” and it was always John’s only option in that moment to respond with an eager, “Of course.”

That was how Sherlock ended up writing John’s best plays. The next day at practice, he would introduce Sherlock’s ideas to his teammates. One remarked on the second day, “See,  this  is why you’re Captain!” to which he replied, “Because I’ve a boyfriend who’s a genius?”  and Mike said, “Of course,” in return.

Though the week leading up to the tournament should have been stressful, Sherlock made it much less so, not just through his help with rugby, but by always insisting John come to bed at exactly eleven o’ clock. It was relaxing for a  routine to be so reliable, not to mention the stress-relieving activities that the routine entailed.

By  Friday afternoon , Every single one of John’s teammates were as relaxed as he was; they knew their plays, and had complete confidence in them.

However, as each game ended in victory, John was beginning to think  winning the Cup  after a fifteen-year losing streak was too good to be true. He knew the plays were perfect, but the further into the tournament they went, the more paranoid he became that the teams they had yet to go up against were developing strategies based on how they had played in previous matches.

So, he saved the best for last.

Saturday’s  last match, the winner of which  would take the Cup, was to pit John’s team against the reigning champion, a fact that would have kept John up all night had Sherlock not thoroughly worn him out with the best blowjob of his life.

The rest of the team felt the excitement and nerves just as much as he did. Warming up before the match, at least four of them nearly threw up, and two did. John rubbed his hands over his face just before they huddled for a last-minute pep talk.

“Alright, lads, in an hour and a half we’ll be the first team in fi fteen years to pull through. Don’t worry about their reputation, they haven’t done nearly as well as they usually do this year. They almost lost to  Baker  yesterday.  Baker . I know we can do this. Hands in.”

As he stacked his hand on the top of his team s’ , he glanced up at the stands and saw Sherlock at the very front  of the crowd ,  John’s  rugby jacket draped across his shoulders, his tights and leotard the only things underneath. He smiled at the thought of Sherlock  dashing  from the studio as soon as he was able, not bothering to change lest he miss the start of the match.

They  were  going to win. And it would be thanks to Sherlock.

+++

Sherlock’s plays had served them well enough that they were tied up, but with the other team  in possession  and on ly seconds left, it was looking like a loss was eminent.

Until Andrews took down the carrier and swept up the field with the ball cradled against his chest. John’s eyes widened as he watched him sidestep every opponent in his way and take off down the pitch.

It was Sherlock’s play. The only one  of his they hadn’t used.

It was so simple, but so effective. Sherlock  really was a genius.

When the whistle blew, John almost dropped to his knees. His face split into the biggest grin anyone had ever seen as his team surrounded him with similar smiles on their faces. A wave of supporters rushed the field, and John nearly missed Sherlock, but managed to grab his hand before he was swept away.

His lips were only inches from Sherlock’s when he felt himself suddenly being lifted from his feet.

His team had not only hoisted him onto their shoulders, but Sherlock as well:  Sherlock, who looked completely lost  up above the crowd. His head whipped back and forth, and when his eyes finally settled on John only a few feet from him, his panic disappeared and he smiled.

Over the combined cheers of the team and the small but excitable crowd, John pointed and shouted down to  Mike, “Take me to my boyfriend!”

Mike passed him off to Williams, who passed him off to Andrews, and he was finally able to plant a celebratory kiss right on Sherlock’s mouth. Though the fans were oblivious to Sherlock’s role in the victory, the team voiced their appreciation with catcalls before finally lowering the two of them to solid ground.

The crowd dispersed slowly, practically skipping off to their cars, congratulating their sons and John as they did so. John’s own mother kissed his forehead and his father clapped him on the back before grinning and shaking Sherlock’s hand. “John tells me you helped write some of those brilliant plays. You have to come for dinner this week. We can  all  talk rugby.”

John burst out laughing. “ Da , I don’t think that’s really—”

“I’d be delighted,” Sherlock said.  John shot him a look, and as his parents left, Sherlock muttered, “How difficult can it be to fake it? He already thinks I’m some sort of tactical genius.”

“But you are,” came Andrews’ voice from behind John, and they both turned as he approached. “I would never have been able to come up with that,” he continued, and Sherlock’s cheeks suddenly went bright red. “Good thing we had a plan, eh?”

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing? Bloody hell, I could kiss you!”

“ D on’t,”  John put in, laughing .

“That’s  his  job,” Sherlock added, nudging  John  a  bit with his elbow.

“Speaking of…” John did  kiss him .

“You two are nauseating,” Andrews remarked good-naturedly.  “Some of us are going out. You coming? Sherlock’s more than welcome.”

“Ta, but I think it’s time for us to be nauseating somewhere else.”

Andrews gave him a knowing look. “Right. Well,  good job, mate. See you Monday.”

John nodded. When Andrews walked away, he turned to Sherlock, who was shivering in just his tights and a jacket.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” he said, putting an arm around him and shaking his head.


End file.
